


Intro to Reconciliatory Cartography

by dazies



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 06, Reunion, lesbian Annie Edison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25389565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazies/pseuds/dazies
Summary: Cartography (n.) – The study of creating and drawing maps, especially for the purposes of navigation.Reconcile (v.) - To reestablish a relationship long since seen, particularly in the instance of one party getting on a boat with LeVar Burton.Troy comes back. There's a lot he's missed– in every sense of the phrase.
Relationships: Troy Barnes & Abed Nadir, Troy Barnes/Abed Nadir, [Andre Bennett/Shirley Bennett], [Frankie Dart/Annie Edison]
Comments: 17
Kudos: 222





	Intro to Reconciliatory Cartography

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Harper (@ophanic on Tumblr) for yelling with me about Trobed for two and a half hours the other night and for being the first to read this fic, to The 88 for writing what is probably the cutest song ever made, and to my father, who said "just watch one episode, I think you'll really like it."
> 
> Tried my darnedest to keep it Community. Take that as you wish. 
> 
> If I've taken canonical liberties then that is my right as an author. Also, Troy is bi Abed is bi Britta is bi Jeff is bi Annie is a lesbian Shirley is an ally and Pierce is DEAD.

It wasn’t supposed to take six years.

If he was honest, he wasn’t sure _how_ long it was supposed to take, but he was pretty sure that most people in the 2010s did not take six years to get from Long Beach back to Long Beach. 

The very beginning of the trip, that first day after the hugs and goodbyes, was awkward at best, because what he hadn’t realized at the time was how far away Colorado is from the ocean. It was eighteen hours to the Pacific coast, two more trying to navigate through LA traffic to the marina. The day had been sunny, he remembers; that kind of sunny where it’s too eerily nice. He would’ve preferred a cloud or two.

At first, with LeVar, it had been awful, even for Clone Troy–– mostly, it was him trying desperately to find topics of conversation that didn’t hinge on How Much I Love You. It was stilted, unnatural. Eventually, by hour seven of being in a boat on a truck in the Mojave Desert, he figured nothing weirder would probably ever happen to him ever, and he let his guard down.

LeVar was _really_ good at Go Fish.

By the time they’d finally reached the water, the two of them had devised the beginnings of what might have almost been a plan: They’d go south, first, towards Hawaiʻi, because who crosses the Pacific on a boat without going to Hawaiʻi? Then they’d go to Tokyo, and from there they would see if they wanted to spend more time around the Pacific Islands. All Troy knew was that he wanted to go to Greece, because he’d liked how it looked in _Mamma Mia!_. 

So, they set off, and wherever they went they stayed a few weeks (except for Greece, where Troy had _really_ wanted to get acquainted with Skopelos and the next thing either of them knew it it had been a month and they still had Athens and Crete left to go). He liked Tokyo, and Mumbai, and Cape Town, and enjoyed Istanbul okay, even though the only Turkish phrase he ever actually ended up learning was “Hello, orange juice please.” (He didn’t even really like orange juice all that much, but he forced himself to memorize at least one thing on the first day, and that was it, and it was also the only one that stuck.)

Most of their time was spent bouncing around the Mediterranean, and thus his trip was characterized by an unexpected warmth. Between Jerusalem, Alexandria, Cyprus and Malta, Rome and Barcelona, the list went on, never before had he spent so much time in the sun, not even in the southern part of the northern part of the American Southwest. 

In all, they must have spent two years in those coastal cities on the Mediterranean Sea. He hadn’t packed a lot of money with him, because he didn’t have much, but he hadn’t anticipated exactly how much Pierce would provide him, even before the Hawthorne Wipes stock. By the time he’d realized just how much he and LeVar were spending, it was too late to do anything about it except spend more.

So, two years on the Mediterranean, and, somehow, four years altogether before and after that. But it didn’t feel that way, not really, because everything kept happening so fast, and he was with LeVar, _his friend LeVar_ , and he was doing things with his time and his life; things like Learning One Phrase In Turkish and Singing Mamma Mia On The Island From _Mamma Mia!_ and Going To The Beach and Meeting Girls And Kissing Them and, okay, Maybe Meeting Boys And Kissing Them, Too. 

He liked it; he did. It made him feel like a real person, like an individual. But somewhere along the line–– he thinks maybe it was Barcelona–– he realized that he didn’t really ever _want_ to be an individual.

Maybe it had been the pirates— they got to them quite soon after the trip had begun, sometime before Hawai‘i, even, and held the two of them in separate rooms long enough for Troy to realize that his loneliness extended far beyond long showers. He needed to be with people, was what he finally decided once they let him go— which didn’t actually take all that long, just some bargaining on LeVar’s part that Troy was pretty sure just involved a sort of personalized Reading Rainbow experience to be sent as a hard drive to the crew’s P.O. box in Switzerland. It was a surprisingly small blip in the journey, now that he had taken the time to think about it; what, two months, three? In the span of six years? 

So, okay: he needed people. He needed _them._

“I don’t think I even really want to be one person, on my own,” was what he wrote, on his somehow-still-active Greendale email account, from a computer in a public library somewhere in coastal France the summer of 2017. (His phone plan, he was extraordinarily upset to find out, did not work at all internationally. LeVar didn’t bring his phone because he “wanted to live in the moment.”) “You know how people have soulmates? That’s how I feel about you guys. But instead of one, it’s like I have five. And that’s pretty cool. And I don’t wanna give it up.”

He wasn’t expecting to get a response, but he did end up with one, though not from a person he’d thought it might be.

_Troy,_

_I read the email you sent to your study group. How fun! I’m sure you’ll understand, their accounts are deactivated because, as of 2015, none of them actually go here anymore, but I still have access to Jeffrey’s because, well, on second thought, don’t concern yourself with that. Anyway, I can give you some updates:_

_Jeffrey is still in Greendale. I have his phone number, so I can put you in touch with him. Not sure where he’s working, but I think he said something to me about middle school? Could you imagine? Not sure about the others, but once I get you Jeffrey’s contact I’m sure they won’t be far behind. Last I checked, Britta was here, Shirley was in Florida, Annie was in DC, and Abed was in LA. But, again, that was a few years ago._

_And, Troy, when you come back, why not take a class online? Or maybe make an alumni donation? Any amount helps. Just some suggestions._

_Anyway, glad to hear from you! Hope to see you back here soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Dean Pelton_

It shouldn’t have made him cry, but he did–– so much so that an old lady started talking to him in French and all he could say was a choked “merci, oui oui” through sobs. It was like he had been living his whole life in some sort of dream world, and just needed to make sure that the real dream wasn’t back at Greendale. They were all still _real_.

And they were: He found out later, from Jeff on his personal email account–– which he didn’t get to read until he was in Morocco–– and later when he would stumble across the odd payphone that hadn’t yet been removed from its booth, that Britta was still in town, and Shirley had come back. Annie had moved to New York after she decided she didn’t want to be a narc or whatever, and also she was a lesbian and don’t worry too much about it but also if he was surprised imagine how _Jeff_ must feel. Pierce had not, as Troy had mused one day in Singapore, faked his own death, and was still very much not alive.

And Abed.

Abed was famous–– or, almost. He’d graduated from PA to director much faster than any of them had anticipated, had a knack for bad crime dramas and soda commercials. Greendale had tried to hire him to do another, much more put-together promo the year prior, but by then his rate was already too high. (He’d offered to do it for free and the Dean had refused. Jeff didn’t know why.) 

Troy had thought about it ever since Jeff told him: Abed, in his fancy LA house, with what was probably a fancy LA wife and a fancy LA kid. The thought of it kind of made him want to sit down and never stand up again, but he couldn’t really place why. 

That was a lie: he could, but he didn’t really like to think about it too much.

He hadn’t felt, with any of the people he’d had flings with, remotely as invested as he had been–– still was–– with Abed. Not even romantically, though he had begun to think by about Perth that maybe it _was_ love that he had been in, not just an excruciatingly overinvested codependent relationship that defied most levels of definition, even the ones the two of them had made up.

It was odd to talk to others about him, odder to relay the information back to himself. He wouldn't have thought, before Greendale, that he was capable of caring for anybody so much, let alone six other people. He could barely explain that he and Abed were so close that they could essentially read each other’s minds, that they knew each other so well it was like they were in each other’s heads. He struggled to tell people, both those who asked and those who didn’t, about their Dreamatorium adventures, about how they would rather hit each other with pillows forever or fall into not-so-imaginary lava than stop being friends.

And they hadn’t stopped being friends, not really. Except that Troy didn’t have a phone that worked and Jeff was his only source of information because apparently nobody else used email anymore, and it would’ve taken forever to relay a message back, and that was if Jeff even _knew_ Abed’s number anymore, which apparently he didn’t because Abed had wanted to try his hand at an “I disappear and change all of my contact info and emerge a completely new person” trope. 

It was the not seeing him, not _hearing_ from him, that was the worst part. It was like he didn’t know anything about him anymore. He remembered, all those years ago, when they decided not to move in together out of fear that they’d get too close and start to hate each other or something. And then they did move in together, and it felt like the rightest thing that had ever happened to Troy ever. Abed was the rightest thing in his life, probably. And not having him was the wrongest.

He’d find himself, when LeVar wasn’t with him, talking out loud to himself. Like he expected someone else to answer, because for five years someone always would. It was Abed who made him realize he didn’t have to be alone. And it was Abed who made him realize that he didn’t have to pretend to be anything he wasn’t for people to like him. Even Annie, when he’d first met her, like actually met her, wanted him to quit football for her. And Jeff wanted him to _do_ football for _him_. But Abed didn’t care. Abed was the one who asked him what he wanted to do most, asked him what would make him the happiest. (And the answer was, usually, spending more time with Abed.) Anyone who insinuated that Abed didn’t have emotions, or empathy, didn’t know Abed at all.

To be fair, Troy didn’t really know Abed completely, either. At least, not in the way he _wanted_ to. He knew him better than anyone else, sure, but somehow Troy still felt, when he left, like it wasn’t enough. Like he’d barely scratched the surface. When he was on the boat, Troy would have dreams of him in Jeff’s bad superhero costume saving Abed for all the times he wasn’t there to, yanking open locker doors like he couldn’t have done when he was 13. 

_Would_ he have, when he was 13?

Troy liked to think that, if he’d met Abed earlier, he would’ve known. Something would’ve clicked in him, like it clicked that first day of the study group when he sat next to Abed and this thing in his stomach went, “You know him.” But not in that way it was with Annie, like “Oh I vaguely recognize her, I must have met her someplace”; something more immediate, like a live wire. Like, “I _know_ you and I don’t know why or how, but I know that we have to start catching up for all the time we missed. I think.”

If he _had_ met Abed earlier, Troy thought that maybe he wouldn’t have had any of the problems he’d had in high school. Because Abed didn’t pressure him to be cool, or to be a bully. Or to do things on his own, without help, even if he didn’t want to. Or to get a football scholarship. If Troy had known Abed in high school, he would’ve been the one saving him from lockers, not the one shoving him in them. He hoped.

So, it was this thinking, this gut-sinking feeling of not knowing what to _do_ about anything without Abed–– not knowing where to put his hands after a funny joke except one on his chest and one extended, a habit he couldn’t break even after five continents; not knowing who to tell his inside jokes to because LeVar didn’t get them and he didn’t know anyone else, and he couldn’t bear explaining them without feeling like that day Pierce tried to steal their handshake; hearing fucking _Daybreak_ on the radio in Bristol and just straight up fucking _crying_ in the middle of a crowded restaurant while still trying to hum along–– that led him, in a roundabout way, to the romance-novel conclusion that Oh Fuck. The Way I Am In Love With My Best Friend Defies All Methods Of Human Communication.

He was excited to see Abed again, for sure, (and he _would_ see him again, he figured, even if Jeff couldn’t get a hold of him) but he was also devastatingly nervous. Would it feel the same? He knew he’d feel that click again, that “everything is right where it’s supposed to be” feeling, but he didn’t know how they’d talk. He didn’t know how much Abed had changed. He didn’t know how much he’d moved on (Troy was pretty sure he hadn’t, but even entertaining the thought that even one of their inside jokes had slipped Abed’s mind made him want to, like, push somebody over). He wanted everything to go back to exactly the way it was before, but he knew that it wasn’t gonna happen like that. Maybe with the others it would feel like slipping on an old shoe or whatever the phrase is, but with Abed it was gonna take a second for them to feel like they were each other’s own brains again. It was hard to explain, and LeVar definitely didn’t get it.

What LeVar did get, though, was Hollywood.

“What’s TV like,” was what he had asked one day after the Dean had emailed him. 

“Like, working there?” Troy nodded eagerly. “Well, it’s a little more boring than you might think. I sat around more than I didn’t, to be honest.”

He thought for a moment. “What about the directors?”

LeVar shrugged. “They’re always on, no matter what, whether it’s 9am or 3am. They know their job, and they’re good at it.”

“And what about, like… the whole being famous thing?”

LeVar had laughed at that, given another shrug. “Some days people recognize you, some days they don’t. I’ve gotten free meals, but not more than you can count on your hands, probably. The worst part is when you’re in an airport. It always seems to happen in airports, and you always end up looking terrible when they ask for your picture.”

Troy had nodded. He wasn’t really sure what he was looking for in LeVar’s answer, but that had seemed sufficient enough. He hadn’t brought the subject up again.

But now it was now, and they had left the western coast of Mexico two weeks ago and were getting dangerously close to California. He’d emailed Jeff and told him their ETA, hoped he gave him ample time to get the five of them together. Or, four, maybe, if… He wasn’t gonna think about it. 

Two days before they were set to dock, he found LeVar walking confusedly on the deck, holding a small black box up to the sky. 

“Aha!” He finally said, motioned for Troy to come over. “I finally got it to work. Guess we’re close enough to Baja for it now. C’mere, go and call your friend.” 

Troy was speechless. “Where the hell did you get a _phone_ , LeVar; you told me you didn’t bring one!”

“I didn’t,” was his response. “I bought it, at a drugstore in Costa Rica. I missed Bejeweled.”

Troy was almost mad at him, until he remembered that this was LeVar Burton, and LeVar Burton was his friend, and he figured he would rather die than get mad at LeVar Burton, who was his friend.

“Well, thanks,” was what he said, quickly ran below deck to grab the slip of paper Jeff had given him with his cell on it. The line rang twice before he heard a familiar voice on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Jeff! It’s me, Troy. Listen, can you do me a favor? I don’t know if you got my message a few weeks ago, but LeVar and I are gonna be docking in, like, two days and I know it’s short notice but if maybe you could get people out to Long Beach––”

“Troy.”

“What?”

“We’re all already here.”

And it was like Troy had just stepped onto the moon, or was wearing moon shoes, or moon pants, or had eaten a really good moon pie, or something like that. “Really?”

Jeff laughed a Jeff Winger laugh. “Yeah. I figured I’d plan ahead. The last of us got in yesterday, actually, so you could say that my timing is pretty damn impeccable.”

Troy was on the verge of tears. He missed them all so much. “And… you managed to get a hold of Abed?”

“Is that _TROY_ ?” he could hear Annie ask in the background, and it made him want to fall over. “Give me the phone! Hi, Troy, it’s Annie, and I miss you so much and I can’t wait until you get in! And also, I heard your question and yes, Abed is here, I did some research with my fancy FBI knowledge and found the studio he works at, and then I found the staff directory and then I maybe harassed some intern for his email but don’t worry about it because I did it all in the name of _friendship_. He’s not in the hotel with us, obviously, because he lives here, but he said he’ll come down when you dock!”

“Yes, so we’re all gonna be here,” Jeff says, obviously trying to take the phone away from Annie. “Also, Dean Pelton texted me and is sorry they can’t make it but they have, and I quote, ‘Such a job ahead of me that it makes whatever crap you guys pulled look tame.’ So.” 

And, just like that, it was all real. He was standing on the scuffed-up deck of the _Childish Tycoon_ , with Annie in his ear. And in two days he would see his friends again. In two days he would see _Abed_ again. The thought alone was almost too much to bear. 

He wondered, after he said his goodbyes and miss-yous and can’t-wait-to-see-you-alls and hung up, how it’d be, the same way he’d wondered all those times before, all those years before, ever since the Dean had told him what Abed was doing. Abed _had_ to be famous; he just knew it. He had to have been the coolest director in Hollywood, no doubt about it. He was so smart, and knew so much about how the world and movies and TV worked. 

So, Abed was most likely famous, and maybe married, and Troy was definitely going to have to deal with the fact that he was _definitely_ in love with him for the five most important years of his life. And might maybe definitely be in love with him still.

So he thanked LeVar for letting him use his phone and he walked, slowly, below deck, but not before taking one of his last good, long looks at the sunset on the Pacific. 

It struck him, that night, that he had literally seen the whole entire world–– or, most of it. Over 30 countries, and however many cities in them, and it had taken him a hefty percentage of his life to do it. And nowhere, not one single place, did he ever have the thought “this would be better than Greendale.” He’d learned, pretty much by Thailand, if not sooner–– the pirates–– that home wasn’t really a place. He’d feel at home anywhere he was if the study group was with him, but he also didn’t think anywhere could feel more at home to him than Greendale did. He agreed with the email he’d sent all those years ago; it was like he had six soulmates. Not that he was a sixth of a person or anything, but that he literally just wasn’t himself without his friends, who were also his family, who were also his existentially-bound life partners.

“LeVar,” he asked, to the man not-quite-sleeping in the bunk across from him. “D’you believe in soulmates?”

“I dunno, Troy,” was what he said, sleepily, back. “I believe in love, though.”

“Cool,” he said. Then, “We should do a podcast or something, when we get back.”

LeVar laughed. “Huh. Maybe. I’ll talk to my manager.” It didn’t sound like he actually would talk to his manager. Whatever; LeVar had, numerically, had had more of Troy than even the study group. Maybe they’d do that thing where they talk on the phone and do a podcast somehow. He pondered the logistics of all of that as he drifted off to sleep.

The next day passed with relative ease, but Troy kept turning the thought around in his head of what was going to _happen_ when they all saw each other again. It would be crazy, he knew it. He thought of doing a little “where are they now?” with each of them–– the camera would zoom in, freeze, and the text would show over their names. “Britta Perry still has not gotten her psychology degree,” or, “Jeff Winger has a girlfriend, apparently; at least that’s what he keeps telling people,” or, “Shirley and Andre Bennett got back together and celebrated their third fifth wedding anniversary.” It was nice to think of them all like that. 

He wasn’t much of a writer, but wherever he went, he’d found himself absentmindedly scripting little things in his head, writing them down, keeping them in a folder. It was mostly just stuff on napkins and sticky notes, but some of it was good; at least, he thought so. And it wasn’t just lines, too: camera angles, cinematography tricks, soundtrack information (they went to Germany and, in the Bach museum, Troy _finally_ figured out the titles of all those pieces he’d heard but didn’t know the names of). 

He wrote about the pirates, their weird mustaches and those t-shirts they wore that technically had English words on them but did not make sense at all, like “Warm Jar” and “Rabbit Candy” and “Dirt Bike.” (The dirt bike one made complete sense, actually; he just wrote it down because he wanted to find one once he got back.) 

He wrote about getting freaked out in Russia because LeVar told him that the guy was just _there_ chilling dead in the middle of the square, and he started crying because he does _not_ like dead people stuff. It felt like something Pierce would do. Weirder, even, than a lava lamp, but not in the slightest by much.

He wrote about the time he went to his first gay bar, in London, where he ordered his 7-and-7 and the bartender laughed at him so hard that Troy almost threw up in the bathroom from embarrassment, and then before he left the bathroom he realized the A/C wasn’t working and somehow fixed it without tools, who cares, he just moved the thingy to the other thingy.

He wrote about all the times he got scammed on the street, which was a lot actually, but it was out of Pierce’s money so he didn’t feel too crappy about it. He wrote about the time he saw someone that looked _exactly_ like Britta when they were on a bus tour around Cairo, and he stared at her for a second and she passed her phone number across the aisle to him and when he tried to explain himself she just made a confused face and muttered something fast and Scandinavian under her breath. 

He didn’t write about the whole figuring-out-I’m-in-existential-love-with-my-best-friend- who-I-haven’t-seen-in-years thing, partly because it would be boring to just show shots of him staring out into space while on his bunk in the boat, or in restaurants, or in the middle of the street in Amsterdam before a bicycle nearly barreled full-speed into him. Besides, it wouldn’t be right. It would be weird. Sure, he was mostly writing stuff down just because it made everything easier to remember, but it was also so he could have a documentary of sorts in the works. Ideas for one, at least. In case a certain filmmaker had a lull in projects he was working on.

Okay, so _maybe_ everywhere he went he was collecting footage for Abed. _Maybe_ he wanted to be a part of his first film when he got back. But if not, that was okay too, he figured–– besides, Abed was busy, and famous, and married––

He _had_ to stop fixating on whether or not Abed was married. Why should he care if he was? It meant he had found somebody; he had moved on. Perfectly fine and normal. 

_Oh, God_. He hoped Abed wasn’t fine and normal.

Scratch that. Fine is fine. Fine is good. But normal? Troy probably wouldn’t be able to take it.

***

It’s a little after eleven when the two of them can finally see Long Beach from the boat. Troy had frantically dialed Jeff that morning, who had confirmed that the study group would be there waiting by 10:30. He felt bad for making them wait, but not bad enough–– he figured they were fine amongst themselves, and, besides, it was a reunion for them, too, even before Troy got there. 

He tries to run through, in his mind, the order he’s gonna hug them all, then realizes quite quickly that given the nature of things, the nature of _them_ , the likelihood of it turning into a group hug is extraordinarily high. 

Troy had thought, before they docked, that it would happen like the big ships in those old movies, where the people wave their hats really fast. He realizes with horror that he doesn’t have a hat to wave. How could he have been to 30 countries with unlimited Pierce Money and _not_ have bought a hat?! 

Okay, focusing: He doesn’t have a hat, but it didn’t end up mattering anyway because the two of them pull in and it’s… anticlimactic. It’s nothing like a movie, where everyone runs at each other on the pier. Instead, the two of them take their things, unload, and are immediately sent to sit in some boring chairs while the government workers ask them if they have any illegal things, like drugs or weapons or fruit or birds. They both say no to everything, but the customs people give Troy a look after he makes a face like maybe he would’ve _liked_ to have taken a bird. Which he can’t help— he would’ve, after all. But only so he could have a story. He recognizes the dangers. 

A very fancy looking man approaches him then, asks for his passport to verify all of the stamps in it. He has a document for Troy to sign, which he guesses contains the money he’s supposed to get after all this. It surprises him, when he signs, that he doesn’t really care. He doesn’t want it. He’ll take it, of course, but it’s not what he wants. He wants to leave this room. He wants to _see them_. 

The man nods a short nod, to Troy and then to the customs people. One of the women waves her hand, which he guesses is a signal for “good to go,” because someone else opens the doors and they get sent out into the lobby. And that’s when things get crazy. 

He notices a couple things, right off the bat, in the split second after he first sees them all again, like how Annie’s hair is longer, which is nice, or how somebody made them all matching shirts that said “Welcome Home Troy!” with a picture of him, just his face, with a sailor cap on, and some clip art of a boat. The shirts are so unbelievably ugly. He wants to cry with happiness and also jump around in a circle and then also fall over, which is kind of what he does. 

It’s Britta who helps him to his feet, holds her arms out for a hug. He feels bad for barreling past her, but figures she should know by now that that’s not the way it goes. 

They stand in a vague half-circle, and he sees Annie place her arm on Abed’s back and push him forward. Yeah, Troy decides; mark that “in love” as thirteen out of ten on the in-love meter.

It’s like he’s forgotten how to do human things, like run at somebody and hug them. His feet feel long and stupid, and seven times too big for his body; the few meters between them feel like too far and also too close at the same time. He clumsily crashes into Abed, who had just been kind of walking briskly over to him with a look that most people would consider as “regular” but makes Troy cry with the weight of joy in his eyes. He forgets where to put his hands. His left arm gets awkwardly crushed between them, and his right finds Abed’s back; he tucks his head into that place above Abed’s shoulder and just kinda stands there for a second, thinking and breathing and also not doing either of those things because half of his brain had pretty much blacked out by this point. 

“I missed you so much,” is what he says, and Abed says I know, I missed you too.

And that’s when the rest of them pile on.

They’re all talking at once, so it’s hard for Troy to hear what any of them are saying, but from what he can tell it’s a lot of variations on “I missed you” and “How have you been?” Jeff doesn’t say anything, but Troy does see him conspicuously turn around and wipe away a tear or two once they all pull away. He turns back around, though, says “I’m so glad you’re back” just loud enough so the others don’t hear. He looks… more well-adjusted, at least.

He gets a much better look at all of them then. “Who made the t-shirts?”

“Well, Annie! Who else,” says Shirley, and she’s right. 

“Cool.” And then they just kind of stand there. It’s like there’s too much to talk about for them to even say anything at all, so it’s awkward until Troy sees LeVar heading towards the door. 

“I’m heading out,” is what he says to them all. 

“Wait!” Troy rushes over to give him a quick hug. “How about that podcast?”

LeVar laughs again, pats Troy on the head. “We’ll see.” And then he’s off, in a fancy-looking cab down the LA streets.

“Don’t bother,” he hears Abed say from behind him. “In the past few years, the market’s become far too oversaturated.”

Troy turns around. “Too saturated, even for LeVar?”

Abed nods a slow, solemn nod. “Even for LeVar.”

He doesn’t know what to do, so he just kind of gives Abed another hug. It’s what makes the most sense, except it’s then that he remembers that touching Abed always made him kind of go crazy in a way he couldn’t quite place, only that it was adjacent but not identical to the way that touching a hot girl made him feel. More grounded; more safe. It is in this moment that he realizes, and how could he have been so _stupid_ , that it’s because Abed’s a _hot guy_ . Who he is in _love with_. The phrase has been echoing in his head from when he first thought it, but thinking it and then seeing him has him all twisted and turned around and also wanting to cry.

Oh, fuck. He is not ready to psychoanalyze eleven years’ worth of interest in his best friend in the customs office of the Long Beach marina, so he pulls away quickly and awkwardly, before Abed has a chance to catch onto what’s happening. He puts his hands out for the handshake instead, which isn’t much better because doing it makes him cry all over again. He looks at the rest of them through teary eyes once they’ve done it, and smiles as best he can. 

“Good to go?” Jeff dangles the keys to an expensive-looking car, and they all nod excitedly, pile into the fancy minivan in the parking lot–– though not before Britta pulls an awkward “ _Thank you_ for your service” to the customs people. “Yeah, thanks,” was what Jeff had said, evidently trying to diffuse the tension. Troy’s ecstatic that for all they had changed, they really hadn’t changed.

It’s in the car–– Jeff driving, Shirley passenger, Britta in the second row, and Annie squished with Troy and Abed in the third–– that they actually start catching up.

The Dean had been right–– Jeff was teaching middle school. “Civics,” he says. “And a little bit of US History. The unmatched law and order. Plus, I school them in a mock trial and it’s fun to set them at each other. It truly brings tears to my eyes.”

And Troy had been right, too–– Britta hadn’t gotten her psych degree. “I was a waitress for a while,” she mentions, though she doesn’t seem too happy about it. “I thought about taking more classes online, but only actually started a couple months ago. I dunno. Maybe I’ll never do it.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” is what Abed says from the back, his leg pressed against Troy’s in a manner that Troy definitely doesn’t want to be thinking about right now. “You’re a good student. And you’re smart. I’m sure you’ll do it eventually. Some people need time is all.”

She’s silent for a moment. “Thanks, Abed.”

“And now, I suppose I will say what _I_ have been doing, since you all have been kind enough to ask?” Troy smiles down at his shoes. _Shirley, never change. Or do, if you want. I’m not your boss_. “Well, since I left the school I’ve been in Greendale with my kids, running the sandwich shop on the side. Ben just turned nine the other week!”

Troy almost starts crying again at the joy in Shirley’s voice. “I’d love to see them again soon,” he says, and she nods and says oh, that’s nice. I’ll tell Andre. And she sends a quick text, and it’s like they’re at the table again, only they’re not, they’re in a car on the way to a Holiday Inn somewhere in Los Angeles. It’s new, but it’s also almost exactly how it was before. He hopes it isn’t too good to be true.

Annie goes next: “I did the FBI thing for a little bit, but I don’t know, I didn’t really like it. It was like I was around a bunch of people who were all too much like me, you know? Rule-followers. Uptight.”

“You’re not uptight.” As soon as Troy says it, he knows it isn’t true, but he reaches across Abed to put a quick hand on her knee anyway. Everything about this car ride makes him want to burst into tears, or burst into flames, or just burst apart with all the emotions inside of him. His brain isn’t so much crying as it is running around in circles, going _These are my friends! These are my friends! And I love them, and I never want to leave them ever again ever!_

“It’s okay, Troy; I get it. I mean, I got it after a little bit. But hey, after I quit I got drinks with another gal who _also_ quit, and let’s just say that going into training wasn’t too bad after all.”

“Yes, um, heh, An- _nie_ , we’ve heard lots about your… FBI fling. And maybe according to your… people that isn’t a sin but it just isn’t fair to the rest of us for you to talk about it so openly!” And, oh, Troy had almost forgotten about this part. The part where he’s gonna have to tell them all at _some point_ that he likes guys, and if Shirley is only barely coming around to Annie, he doesn’t know when the hell he’s gonna find the time–– or, rather, the space–– to do it. He figures that, whenever that ends up being, it will be pushed to “later.” To “after this.” Whatever “this” turns out to be.

“Shirley, it’s been _months_ ,” Jeff says from the driver’s seat. “Give it a rest already. There is no way it takes you longer to come around to Annie being gay than it took me.” 

“Guys! It shouldn’t have even been that much of a surprise to begin with. Jeff is, like, as close to ‘close your eyes and imagine an attractive man’ as you can get. Plus, as soon as I met Frankie I knew what it felt like to _actually_ be attracted to someone.”

Jeff’s head whips up, seemingly forgetting about the pretty-on-point compliment that Annie just gave him. “ _Frankie_?”

Shirley echoes the question in a different tone; while Jeff’s had been more “ _really_ ?”, Shirely’s is more “ _Who_?” 

“Wait… catch me up,” Troy says. “I do not know who that is.”

Abed smiles. “Frankie was kind of Jeff’s foil in the s...emester that year after you left.”

“You guys stayed at Greendale?”

Various murmurs. He can hear a “kinda?” from Annie.

“Okay, this is no time for playing catch-up,” Jeff says. “Nothing much happened anyway. Chang officially joined the group, the Dean got addicted to a VR system and we made friends with the guy who created it, Frankie was an administrator who helped us do jobs around the campus. And also we created a bar in the basement. And also Garrett got married, found out he married his cousin, and then stayed married to his cousin. And _also_ we ruined the school by saving it and saved it by ruining it again, and Chang went to Hollywood but came back because he’s crazy.”

“Jeff got emotional for the first time maybe ever,” Abed adds.

“Like you didn’t, Abed!” Jeff nearly turns around. “He compared TV to you, Troy. Let me know when the wedding is.”

“And I moved into your old apartment,” Britta chimes in, trying her best to dissolve the tension.

Troy is so confused. “Uh, it _sounds_ like a little more than ‘nothing much’ happened.”

“Like you’re the only one out of the loop! I was away too,” Shirley’s shaking her head and, from the amount of it Troy can see, she does not seem happy.

Abed puts his hand out, trying his best to comfort everyone. “Honestly, it wasn’t really much at all. Especially not compared to our earlier days. Most people choose to forget about that year anyway. It felt like a fever dream. Like all the days were just a little bit longer? And with worse lighting. But on the plus side, that was the year I learned how to naturally smile: check it out.” And he does, and it looks only a little bit forced. But Troy is pretty sure that that’s only because he’s seen Abed’s face, and knows why and when it does what it does. It’s a nice smile, though.

Jeff stops them. “Okay, so some stuff happened. Why didn’t you _tell_ us you liked Frankie, though, Annie?”

Annie scoffs. “Like I _knew_ what I was feeling! Jeff, I was so obsessed with what you thought of me because I thought I was supposed to like you. I mean, I did like you, and I still do. But not in… _that_ way. All that pretending-to-marry-you crap was just me wanting someone big and strong to protect me. As it turns out, I had a _lot_ of parental issues.”

From the middle row: “Sounds like you need a…”

“And I have a _very_ great therapist now! Who is very good at her job. Who I see every week.”

Troy’s head is swimming. This is a lot of information to take in. How much could they have changed in a year, and why did it feel like they were back where they started again? It was liked they morphed and transformed and then stepped back and thought about it, and went: No thanks, I’m good where I was. Everyone else was auxiliary. It’s a nice thought, especially for him, who hadn’t really been a part of the _they_ that they had become for a really long time.

Annie continues. “I didn’t want to bring it up because I thought it’d be awkward for us. But I texted her, the other day. Just so she would know–– it seemed like something she’d want told to her. She said she was flattered, and liked me as a friend, and hopes to keep in touch soon. And that’s that.”

Jeff turns to Shirley. “See? That’s that. Nothing more, nothing less. Sometimes people change. But Annie’s still our Annie. Always will be.”

Shirley softens at that. “Well, when you put it _that_ way…”

“Yeah. And I did, and it’s done. ‘Kay? Jeff Winger says gay rights, or whatever.”

An _aww_ from two seats away, an octave higher than usual. Yeah. Family. 

“Yeah, gay rights!” From Britta, in front of him. “Gay rights _forever_ . Okay, Troy?” She turns around, looks him square in the eye. “The study group has a key tenet of gay rights now. You don’t like it, _Get outta the car!_ ”

“Oh, now Britta,” says Shirley, “there’s no need to ostracize those who think differently from us–– maybe Troy is just… coming to terms with it. With God. Sometimes it… takes people a while.”

And then eyes are on Troy. 

He doesn’t want to do anything stupid, so all he does is turn to Annie, take her hand, and go “I’m really, _really_ happy for you. And I hope I get to meet your girlfriend someday. She must be the coolest person ever if she got a date with Annie Edison.”

Another _aww_ , another octave, if that’s even possible. “Thanks, Troy.”

“Yeah. Of course.” And he turns away, and then he realizes it’s Abed’s turn to play catch-up on the last however-many years of his life.

Quickly, before he can speak, he takes a glance down at Abed’s hands, just to brace himself in case his intuitions were true. No ring, but, he thinks, maybe he just doesn’t like wearing a ring. If he’s married, he thinks, whoever he married must get that. _He_ got it, after all, that Abed doesn’t like some textures and fabrics, hates clothing tags so much that he buys all his shirts from a special seller. Maybe rings were a part of it.

And, God, did he _want_ Abed to be married, or not? And before he can answer his own question, Abed starts to talk.

“I guess Jeff told you already, but I’m here now, doing films and things. Started as a PA, but people seemed to like what I was doing, I guess. Moved to TV and commercials, mostly.”

Troy nods. “Soda commercials.” 

And Abed half-smiles, kinda. “Yeah. Thought it’d be harder to break into the scene here, but it wasn’t too bad, actually.” Then, “Sorry I changed my phone number. I realized pretty soon that that was a bad idea, but by then I was already working under the new one so there really wasn’t anything I could do.”

“That’s okay, buddy.” He doesn’t even care. He _doesn’t even care_ , even though maybe he should. Abed is happy, and doing his favorite ever thing. And Troy wasn’t there for a lot of it, which makes him hurt in a lot of places he doesn’t usually, but he tries to not focus on it. Abed’s _happy_ , and that’s what matters. 

“Oh! Tell Troy about your favorite project,” Annie remarks giddily. 

And Abed does: A kind of _Kickpuncher_ thing, except more realistic so they could fit it in a spy thriller. “Think _Million-Dollar Man_ ,” Abed says, “or Bucky from the MCU.” Troy shakes his head at that. “Oh, right–– you were gone when most of those came out. Movie marathon?”

Troy can’t help but break into a smile so big it’s like his face is gonna split in half. “Yeah. Yeah, totally.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool. So he’s got a bunch of bionic parts, not because he needs them but just because he wants them. Uses super-secret intelligence technology to build himself into the perfect spy. Bourne, on technology steroids.”

“Oh, I love Bourne so much.”

“I know you do. So, it was originally gonna be a half-hour special episode in the drama I was working on, but they liked it enough to field a full script. Feature film. It’s in post now.”

It’s like everything’s the same, but they’re all grown up. Troy is in awe of the way things have changed, but only subtly: Abed’s always been sure of himself, but even more so, now. His posture is better; he’s wearing more grown-up clothing. He probably understands words that Troy doesn’t, like “contract” and “investment” and “cauliflower rice.” He is exceedingly close to crying again. “Can you let me know when they do the special fancy screening?”

“You’re at the top of my list,” is what Abed says, and Troy can’t do anything but grab his hand and lay his head on his shoulder, no matter how much of a problem that soon proves to be for his general mental well-being. His brain is screaming at all the points of contact, but all he can do is just kind of mouth “Okay?” to his friend, who nods a small nod. Cool. Okay.

They’re in the Holiday Inn parking lot, saying temporary goodbyes (they’d all planned to stay a couple weeks, so it’s mostly just to Abed, who had parked there and ridden over with them–– plus, there were dinner reservations for the evening anyway) when Troy realizes he really doesn’t have a place to stay. He doesn’t have to worry for long.

“Wanna do the movie marathon tonight? After dinner? And I have a guest room, too, if you want to––”

“I was so worried that you were gonna be…” Troy doesn’t really know what he’s saying, but whatever it is it’s true. “I dunno. Sorry.”

“Gonna be what?”

“Nothing, buddy, I––”

“Normal?”

There’s a small silence as Troy tries to find his words. “Yeah, that, I guess. I mean, like, I guess I was scared that you'd try to make yourself fit in with all these fancy Hollywood people, and maybe they would rub off on you, I guess is what I mean. Or that you married somebody famous, or that you, I dunno, started liking other foods more than you like buttered noodles. I dunno.”

“Buttered noodles will forever be the superior food. Don’t worry about that part.” Abed thinks, then, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes the way Troy remembers him doing years ago. He takes a breath. “You’re upset that…” A long silence, then. He’s confused. “Huh. No. I was trying to do the thing where I tell you how you’re feeling, but now even I’m not sure. We’ve drifted.”

Now Troy’s confused. “Yeah, Abed; it’s been six years.” Pretends like it doesn’t take everything out of him to say that. “Also, since when have you ever told me how I’m feeling? That’s never been a thing.”

Abed considers a moment. “You’re right. I fear others may have mischaracterized me that way, though. Considering I’m so observant and have such a large frame of reference for everything.”

“Huh.” 

A silence. The Los Angeles sun is beating down on the both of them, in that relentless way Troy remembers it doing when he first left. “I guess… I should tell you how I’m feeling then?”

“Yes. But wait until we get home.”

“Okay.” _Home_. “Okay, yeah, sure.”

***

_Home_ turns out to be a compact place in West Hollywood with big windows and a green refrigerator. It’s by far more luxurious than anything Troy is used to, but he knows that it definitely isn’t Hollywood fancy. In fact, he realizes as he steps through the door, this is probably Hollywood regular. Hollywood less-than-regular, even. He can’t begin to imagine what Hollywood fancy might look like.

“It’s cool,” Troy says as he sets his bags down awkwardly, because what else is there to say. “I like it.”

“Yeah,” Abed says. “Close to the studio, which is nice.”

“Yeah.” And, oh no, it’s awkward. It’s so _cool_ , the thought of Abed doing movie-director things in this place. Troy wants to hang out here all the time. He wants to hang out with Abed for the rest of forever, and watch Abed’s movies on Abed’s bigger-than-they-used-to-have TV until the universe collapses or explodes or whatever it is that scientists think will happen in a billion years.

“Guest room.” Is what Abed says, points definitively in the direction of the upstairs. “Then we talk. Six years is a long time. We’re out of sync.”

Troy wonders if this is what other people would consider romantic. _Is_ it romantic? He can’t tell for sure. There had always, of course, been that undercurrent of everything, not helped in the slightest by the way the others had misrepresented them, at least at the beginning. Before Troy had met Abed, the last boy he’d held hands with moved away when he was five. And, when he was with Abed, he kinda _felt_ five, in that way that kids love everything because they’ve never seen it before. They acted like kids, maybe, sure–– but Troy also remembers the giddiness, the exhilaration, the butterflies. Like biking really fast down a steep hill in the summer. Or winning a game after it hasn’t been going well and everyone in the stands thinks you’re gonna lose. Or finding out someone loves you back.

Troy _knows_ Abed loves him back, or did, at least. In that way that they loved each other, that way that was more than “friends” but wasn’t quite “more than friends.” Even when he thought maybe they both would’ve liked it to be. He wasn’t sure. Still isn’t. Didn’t want, even then, to take advantage of the fact that he technically accounted for one of Abed’s first real friends, and definitely Abed’s first real best friend. Plus, he wasn’t even sure what it was he was feeling for the whole of their relationship all those years ago. So even if Troy had said something back then and ruined it, he doesn’t even know what it is he would’ve _said_. “I’m in love with you” would’ve been off the table, repressed by however-many years of religion and expectations. “I like you in a way that I don’t even know how to talk about,” maybe. But, in a way, they’d both kind of said that to each other already. Kind of said it every day. 

Anyway. Troy’s in a guest room, and it’s nice, and it’s down the hall from what looks like Abed’s room. Which is also nice. 

“Troy?”

“Hm?” He looks up. He hadn’t realized he’d been looking down.

“Sorry. You were thinking. I didn’t want to distract you. I know how it is. Happy place?”

He’s not sure. “Uh, maybe, yeah.”

“Cool. So.” And they’re both just standing there, in that way that they do, and Troy wants to do something crazy like knock a lamp over, or launch into the opening monologue from _V for Vendetta_ with all those words that he doesn’t even know the meanings of, or kiss his best friend, just to make sure he isn’t dreaming or something; just to make sure his feet, both metaphorically and literally, stay on the ground. “Here.” Abed says. “You sit, and I’ll sit––” and Abed takes a seat in the chair by the door, motions for Troy to do the same on the bed–– “and then we talk. Which I know is out of character for us, but I can tell that we can’t read each other’s minds anymore, so this is the next best thing.”

Abed sounds so sure of himself, almost like he’s directing a scene. But this is real life, and in real life you can’t do another take. And Troy knows that Abed knows that, and doesn’t want to make Abed mad by insinuating that he doesn’t because that’s one of the things that makes Abed the most mad ever, except for maybe people who hate on _Die Hard_ in front of him. Troy wants it to be good, but he also wants it to be good the first time. The only time. He doesn’t want to have to do this again. He doesn’t want to have to sit in it. It makes him feel–– icky, almost. Like he’s somewhere in Feelingsville where he’s not supposed to be. Clone Troy had abandoned ship about a week into his voyage, so it’s not like he isn’t used to it, but he hasn’t really been used to it with anyone else in the room. Especially when “anyone else” is Abed.

Okay. Okay. 

“Okay. So, uh. Where do I start?” It feels like an interview. Which is actually kind of cute. Troy’s always wondered what it would be like to do that. Although he’d probably be really uncomfortable if it was an interview with anyone except Abed. He’d need Clone Troy to do an interview. He might have to make Clone Troy a permanent escape plan. 

“Oh. Wait.” And Abed stands up suddenly, bolts down the stairs. Troy doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he hadn’t seemed upset when he’d left. He taps his feet on the floor absentmindedly, liking the way his socks feel on the fancy hardwood floors. Thankfully, it isn’t long until Abed walks back up the stairs with two cups.

“It’s not the same,” he says, as he hands Troy a glass of what he guesses is not-quite-special-drink. “It’s a weird organic instant cocoa powder from the store across the street. I don’t really like it, but the nearest place that sells the good stuff is a ways away.” 

Troy can tell Abed is lying to save his feelings. Abed lives in LA now, and likes LA things. Plus, people grow out of sweet stuff as they grow older. He doesn’t really mind, as long as the buttered noodles stay. 

“That’s okay, buddy.” And it is. The fact that he’d lied makes it even more okay, somehow. “So, okay,” Troy says as Abed sits back down. “Where were we?”

“Okay. First: How was your trip? Good parts, bad parts, overall feelings.”

Troy likes that Abed understands how it’s sometimes hard to do things all at once. It’s hard in a different way for each of them, but the idea is the same. Abed needs things in small chunks otherwise he doesn’t get it. Troy needs things small or else he’ll get caught in his head and start thinking and overanalyzing, which is never fun or cool. He’d forgotten that that was part of why they worked so well together. Like, they need the same things but for different reasons. They’re different enough to not be each other, but similar enough to get each other. Or, they were. Hopefully, they still are. Troy could tell Abed was lying, after all.

“Um, it was okay. Good, I mean. I met a lot of people.”

“Cool. Where’d you go?”

“Um, Greece. Spain. Singapore. India, and other places. Pirates, before we got to Thailand–– can I say something?”

“You already are.”

“I––” He doesn’t know how to say it. But he also knows that no one else in this situation would know how to say it either, which is comforting. He likes knowing that, when he doesn’t feel smart, other people would feel equally as not-smart in the same situation. “It’s like… I don’t know, like my mind is going crazy and this––” he gestures vaguely at the space around him, maybe to the house, maybe to the city, he isn’t sure–– “is weird, and new, and you’re so, like, grown up…”

“So are you.” 

“Yeah.” Troy waits a second before he says any more. He doesn’t really _want_ to be grown-up. He just kinda had to be, to do grown-up things like sailing around the world. “It’s like… I feel jealous. I guess.”

Abed cocks his head to the side and looks at Troy with some of the gentlest eyes he’s ever seen. “Why?”

Troy inhales, holds his breath before letting it out somewhat defeatedly. “I don’t _know_ , Abed, it’s like… like I’m jealous of the fact that other people knew you, and saw you. Like, when I was away. And other people saw you become this cool director person and I wasn’t there for it and it’s not _fair_ that I have to catch up now because if there was to be _anyone_ next to you when you did all this cool stuff it should’ve been _me...._ ” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but it’s all coming out rushed and muddy and not the way it usually does. He can feel himself losing it. “Like, you probably went on _dates_ and got _married_ and had a _kid_ and I was, like, not there for it when I should’ve been, which is dumb, I know, because I had to go and it was good for me to go, I guess…”

Abed’s not saying anything. He’s looking off into space, blinking slowly. Fuck. That’s a freakout face. “I…” It takes Abed a second to put his thoughts together. “First off, I didn’t get married, or have a kid. I don’t know why you would’ve thought that; we both knew I wasn’t going to get married.”

“You said that, like, seven years ago––” 

“But it didn’t make it any less true. Unrelated: Did you draw up plans for any new inventions?”

“Something called Dance Pants. They’re fantastic. I wanna patent them.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool. So I’m right.” Troy doesn’t know what he’s really saying, but he lets him go on anyway. “Every Dreamatorium prediction has been, for the most part, completely correct. So, no, I don’t get married. And I don’t understand why you’d be jealous of something that didn’t even happen. I didn’t switch to sharing my life with someone else when you left, not really. The study group, for some things, and I guess Annie. And I got a girlfriend, for a bit. But it wasn’t ever like us. And when I left for LA there was nothing remotely like us. You’re jealous of someone that doesn’t exist.”

Troy considers a moment. Then, “I guess I’m jealous of you, then.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

A deep inhale. “Yeah, buddy, I know. But it’s like… like, you’re the only person who knew you, _really_ knew you, for all those years that I was gone. And I want to know you like that. So I’m jealous of that person.”

“Because you wanted to be with me the whole time.” Troy nods. Abed narrows his eyes, and Troy thinks he can see the freakout almost leave them. “I guess that makes sense, then. In a weird sort of way. I’d forgotten about your talent for emotional perception.”

Troy doesn’t like that. “You forgot?”

“Six years. Also, I meant that more the specifics, not your general character traits. You’ve always been the perceived emotional core to my detached, objective stoicism. That’s why we work. It’s like Mulder and Scully, except instead of one believing in aliens but not believing in religion and the other believing in religion but not believing in aliens, it’s like one of us can put our emotions to words and the other is an expert in human behavior. The metaphorical juxtaposition is less heavy-handed with us, though, I guess.”

What? _What_? “Yeah.”

“Although,” and Abed leans back in his chair, takes a sip of new special drink. He swallows, then a few seconds later remembers the lie and makes a delayed, overdramatic grimace. Troy wants so badly to kiss him. “It’s kind of the same thing. Like when Mulder says Scully’s his one in five billion, or that she’s kept him honest. Or that episode when they realize they’d met each other in past lives.”

“That was a terrible episode.”

“I know. Sometimes shows stumble in their fourth season. It happens.” (Troy doesn’t know what Abed had meant by that; Season 4 of _The X-Files_ had had some of his favorite episodes.) “But the idea is the same. Like how I figured out you and I were destined to meet. Some unknown force of the Universe was at play there. Something… cosmic.” Abed spreads his hands wide, raises his eyebrows in a gesture of exaggerated mysticism. “And, if you think about it,” Abed says, taking another sip of new special drink (this time with a much more convincing grimace), “the two of them met each other when they were already in their late 20s, or early 30s. So we’re ahead of them.”

“...Uh huh.”

“Sorry. That was long-winded. I guess what I meant to say is that you shouldn’t be jealous of me for getting to know myself while you were gone.”

“Oh. Okay.” Troy doesn’t really know what to think. Abed knows, he must assume, that Mulder and Scully were in love. Like, in _love_ love. Like, will-they-won’t-theying for seven seasons. Like, it was pretty much them and _Star Trek_ that pioneered the idea of romantic fan fiction in the first place. _That_ kind of love-love. He also knows that the characters were eventually majorly fucked over. The metaphor is too loaded for Troy to fully know what comparison Abed is trying to make beyond the surface. Point is, he’s confused, and his brain is crying, and he does kind of feel that existential, beyond-this-planet love that they talk about in _The X-Files_. But in a way that, he hopes, doesn’t make him or his face look too weird right now. 

“This might not have been the best direction to go. I’m sorry,” Abed says again. 

“No, no; it was me who brought it up. Don’t worry about it.” Troy, again, takes a large breath. “So, my trip?” Abed nods, and so Troy tells him everything.

Or, everything he can, in the time they have before their dinner reservation: the pirates and their weird shirts; Lenin literally just _chilling_ (“I don’t _get it,_ Abed! Why would you want to look at a _dead guy!_ He’s _dead!_ ”), the _Mamma Mia_ recreation (“Oh, they did a sequel to that. We’ll watch it after our MCU marathon.”), among other stuff. Troy even takes out his documentary notes to show Abed–– “If you aren’t too busy with your fancy spy project, that is.”

And Abed looks at Troy, really looks at him. “Nothing I do here would ever make me too busy for you. I figured you’d know that.” And he _means_ it. He looks at his watch, sets the papers on the bed, takes Troy’s now-empty glass of not-special-drink (which had been pretty good, if he’s honest) from the table next to him. “Dinner’s soon. We’d been talking longer than I thought.”

It’s a stilted, awkward end to a conversation that Troy can’t even really begin to wrap his head around, even after the many hours that they had been talking. He wants to put a pin in it, reserve it for later, but he isn’t sure he can do that. Isn’t sure how this, the two of them, is even gonna _work_ from now on. 

All he knows is that he’s here, staying with his best friend and favorite person in the whole world, for the first time in six years, who had just possibly compared their weird little relationship to one of the greatest love stories of modern television. And also they are going to be late for dinner with his other four favorite people if they don’t leave right now. 

So they head out: Abed, driving his small, newish hybrid (a Britta-looking car, Troy thinks, whatever that may mean) to a somewhat-fancy place in a hip part of town–– although, considering Troy’s never really been to LA, everything looks cool from where he’s sitting.

Traffic is bad, though, because it always is, and they have a little too much time to talk. Not enough that Troy feels he has time to parse out the reality of what they’d just talked about, but too long for silence, or the radio, without it being weird. So all he says is, “When we get back, can you tell me about what you’ve been doing?”

Abed smiles a little bit, nods slightly. “Yeah. Of course. I figured that would be the natural progression of things; we just ran out of time.”

“Yeah.” Then, as the car pulls into the parking lot, “I just wish I could know what you’re thinking again. Like we used to.”

“It’ll happen soon enough, I’m sure,” Abed says. “Besides, I was anticipating you staying with me for at least a couple months after you get back. So we’ll have plenty of time.” 

And that’s that. 

***

The restaurant is big, and kind of loud. They find the rest of them at a round table, two spots open between Shirley and Britta. They slide in, and Troy is somewhat surprised that they had all been early. 

“I’ve never been here before,” Abed says in the general direction of Jeff. “Why this place?”

Jeff shrugs. “It’s called Little Dick’s. That in itself is enough to make a grown man jump for joy.”

“Jeff!”

“What?” He turns to his right. “Oh, I forgot; you get no joy from my humor anymore.”

Annie twists her face into a half-smile, half-grimace. Troy had forgotten how much he likes when Annie makes her faces. “It’s not that! I just… realized I didn’t have to let your bad jokes slide anymore. Now that we’re not… Doing… Whatever it was we were doing.”

Shirley makes a small, quick face from Jeff’s other side. “Yes, Annie, as we’ve been told.”

“Shirley!” From Britta. “Remember: Gay rights!”

“I _said_ gay rights! I’ve been saying it! It just takes a second, Britta! We’re not all champions of the underlings like you are.”

“They’re not _underlings_ , Shirley; they’re people. And there’s one sitting _right the fuck at this table._ ”

Annie makes her little angry face. “And she has a name, and feelings, guys! Don’t talk to me like I can’t hear what you’re saying.”

Troy had forgotten a lot of this, too: The bickering, the back-and-forth, almost too fast for his brain to handle, though when was anything ever going any faster than his brain was at any given moment.

“Believe me; I wasn’t prepared for this either,” Abed whispers in his ear, and it shouldn’t make Troy shudder but it does.

He’s snapped out of his emotions by Shirley: “Fine. Okay.” And she leans over across Jeff, puts a hand on Annie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, sweetie; you know I love you, right? I’m trying. I really am.”

“So we’re good?” Jeff asserts his space between the two as he puts his hands out on either side of him, though it seems he could not care less. “Good. And we’ll leave it at that. Thank you, Shirley, for your acceptance.”

“Everyone’s a little gay anyway, right?” Britta says, with a slight smile. “I mean, like, most of us are, I guess.”

Jeff raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think I would make the assumption that _most_ of us are, Britta. Is there something you’d like to tell us?”

Britta shrugs. “Whatever. Boys are hot. Girls are hot. Everyone’s hot. I’m a free spirit, unlike _some_ of you guys.” Mostly, she’s looking at Shirley when she says that.

“Wait, wait, okay, now hold on,” says Jeff. They haven’t even ordered yet and Troy can barely hear him over the amount of people shouting in this oddly echo-y space, but he wants to hear the speech all the same.

“It’s been… a long time since we last saw each other, _really_ saw each other. And it’s been even longer since we’ve all been in a room together. And, like I keep saying, people _change_ . Or, maybe they just figure out who they truly are–– who they’ve always been. And they become more comfortable in their own skin. I know that I’ve stopped using my self-confidence as a deflection, and if anything, my self confidence has grown, because now instead of accepting that I’m an asshole, I’ve accepted that I’m one of the coolest people to walk this planet. I must be, with you all on my side. And I can see you guys have become more sure of yourselves too. Annie told us one of the most vulnerable details about her identity almost immediately after she figured it out, without even being sure that all of us would accept her. That’s one of the bravest things I can think of anybody doing. And, look at Abed–– at the _suit_ he’s wearing! He’s chased his dream and cemented his role as Hollywood director with such gusto that I don’t think I could have ever imagined it, even after knowing how talented of a person he is.

“We’re not college kids anymore, guys. Not really. When we were at Greendale, we still grew. And we still changed. But we were all there for all of it. And now that we’ve had time apart, seeing each other again feels like whiplash, because we weren’t there every step of the way. But you know what? Now we’re _back_ . Now we’re _us_ again. We all loved each other for who we were when we’d first met each other–– and I can tell you for a fact that we were significantly worse people back then. So who’s to say that we can’t love each other for who we are now? 

“You guys supported me when I didn’t deserve it. I think it’s only fair that we continue to extend that courtesy, even as we’re navigating this new thing. This new chapter. Because we’re special. We’re _worth it_ . We’ve survived so much more than this. We can do it again, but cooler. More grown-up. And, if we’re not invincible by now, well, I won’t even finish that sentence, because from what I’ve seen, of people–– and I’ve seen _a lot_ –– no group has been as resilient as us. As utterly unbreakable. Even after however-many years. And that? _That’s_ something to be proud of.”

Troy almost wants to clap. But he doesn’t, because Jeff’s talking again.

“So, a toast to Annie–– our little Annie, all grown up. And a toast to Britta, for what I think was coming out to us just now? And a toast to Shirley, who’s working on it.” And they all clink their glasses together, straining up to meet Jeff’s outstretched arm because somewhere along the line he’d stood up and is very tall.

Jeff sits back down, ceremoniously fixes his blazer’s lapels just for a little extra swagger. “Still got it!” he mutters, as the waiter, who had apparently been there for a bit longer than any of them had realized, clears his throat.

“Did you guys… want to order, or something? I didn’t want to interrupt whatever was going on here. Are you a theatre troupe? Was that a bit?”

“Not a bit! But a show all the same,” says Jeff, and makes a face that implies a wink without, remarkably, actually winking at all. Troy wishes he had forgotten how cool Jeff was.

And so they order, and they eat, and they talk, and Troy makes side comments to Abed, and Abed does the same back to Troy. And the inside jokes are there. And it’s almost like nothing even happened. It’s almost like Troy didn’t go anywhere at all.

The night ends unceremoniously, with an almost-argument over how to split the bill (Abed pays for Troy, which he literally didn’t have to do because Troy now has _millions of dollars_ , apparently) and hugs, promises that they’ll see each other again very soon. Somehow they had all cleared their schedules for the next week, so, while each of them were kind of going on their own mini LA vacation, they would be meeting up for meals and things. Jeff had reserved a conference room in their hotel, which Troy can’t help but laugh at–– “We need a table!” Jeff says, with such earnest that it almost doesn’t make sense, except Troy agrees. They say their goodbyes and it’s like it’s a school night, like he’ll have to get up at 7 to make a class he doesn’t want to take and he’ll see them all again in the morning. 

The car ride back is unfortunately more awkward even than the ride to the restaurant was, Abed with his eyes fixated on the road. Troy doesn’t know what to say really, so he busies his eyes by focusing on Abed’s hands, the way they tap and wring at the steering wheel. He’s in a _car with Abed_. Everything he does with Abed shouldn’t feel like it’s the new best thing ever, but that’s literally what it feels like. Six years will take a lot out of you, Troy realizes–– and he’d thought it would take him at least that long to get it all back. But it seems to all be flooding back rather quickly, provided he doesn’t fuck this up.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be so candid earlier,” Abed says suddenly. “I guess I didn’t think that was our thing.”

“I didn’t mean to.” He’s reminded of the polygraph test–– _lie!_ “Okay, I kinda did, but only because, like, we used to know what we were thinking but now we don’t, so now I have to say it.” He wants, selfishly, for Abed to bear his soul to him now. He wants Abed to say, I didn’t know who I was without you. He wants Abed to start crying, or pound on the table and make a speech from _The Breakfast Club_ like he had the first day Troy had met him. 

That first day had been terrible, mostly. Except for not, obviously, because he met them, and they met him. But mostly it was weird, and the light in the sky was all wrong, and he didn’t know who any of them were. He was Old Troy sitting in the chair where New Troy was supposed to sit. He’d called Abed a name. He doesn’t remember what, but he remembers it was mean.

“Why did you choose me?”

“Hm?”

“For the study group. Or, I mean… No. Yeah. For the study group.”

Abed shrugs. “I chose Annie first. She sat front and center, and answered every question Chang asked, and usually she was right. I figured she’d be nothing but an asset. And she was looking over at you every two seconds for the whole of class; I figured I’d introduce some narrative tension. It didn’t really prove to be an issue, though.”

“Oh. Okay.” He doesn’t know why he’d expected it to be for any other reason.  
“And I chose you in a more real sense after a couple days. I arranged the seats so you’d sit with Pierce at first, because it seemed like you’d play off each other’s childlike energy. But then we all ended up hating Pierce, or, sorry, making fun of him all the time, so that didn’t really work out. But even before that, I knew I wanted to be your friend. I don’t know how, or why. Actually, I knew I wanted to be your best friend. I didn’t even really know what that meant, at the time. I still don’t know what that means. I don’t think what we were–– what we are–– is best friends. I don’t know.”

Troy’s crying again, both in his brain and in his eyes. “I… wasn’t expecting you to be so… candied.”

“Candid.”

“That too.” Then, as Abed pulls into his driveway, “And, what do you mean we weren’t best friends?”

Abed puts the car in park, sits still in his seat for a moment before opening the driver’s side door. “Do you want to talk inside? I’ll make tea.”

***

Abed doing tea is new. Although Troy doesn’t know if he’d call it “tea” at all–– it’s some fancy, bright-red stuff that, while technically legit–– he looked at the box–– tastes more like Gatorade than anything else. Abed had been right; it wasn’t like them to sit, and talk, and have a weird sort of what-are-we convo like they’re in some PG-13 romance movie. Or any other movie. They’d always talked, before, like they didn’t have time to spare; every joke had to make it out fast enough for another one to come in behind it. Hijinks were over in a matter of hours, and arguments, when there were any (he doesn’t like to think of the few days there were, and especially not the Two Days He Wishes Never Happened), were over faster than that. He wants to do a hijinks with Abed that lasts forever. He wonders if they can pull one off that involves him having no choice but to live here, even though he has an inordinate amount of money in his bank account now apparently. 

He and Abed sit across from each other at the kitchen table, which is small and round and in front of a window. And Abed says, after a while of looking down at his tea, “I know I’m supposed to be Clone Abed but I don’t think I can have this conversation if he’s here.”

Troy smiles, laughs a little bit. “Send out the clones?” And they do, make a show of it–– messing with their arms and legs and getting visibly looser, more flexible. And Abed starts talking.

“I didn’t really mean that. We are best friends. We were, I mean. And we are, still, I think. But I left, and got this new job. And this new job means I get to meet a lot of different people. And I guess some of them… I could consider friends. Best friends, even. Maybe. I still don’t really know what that means. I guess because I went from having no friends to having better friends than I think anyone on Earth has ever had. And you.” He considers a second. “It is weird to talk about this all at once.”

All Troy can do is just kind of agree, so he does. “I feel the same, though.”

Abed nods, slowly. Like he’s planning his next move, writing his next line. “That’s good, then. I figured you did. It did feel, kind of, like something clicked into place. It did feel cosmic. I wasn’t joking earlier. And not to be mean or insensitive or anything, but I think it’s unfair to think you’re the only one who was jealous. Every second you were on that boat and I wasn’t there it was like you were slipping further from me. To be honest, I didn’t know how it’d be at all. When you came back I mean. Or even if. Somewhere along the line your chip lost signal or got too far away or something and wouldn’t show up on my map. And I thought either you’d died, or you found it and removed it because you were moving on. I think you were worried that when you got back, it wouldn’t be the same. I think I was worried that it wouldn’t _be_.”

Troy shakes his head. It’s not right, any of it. “But, Abed… I’ll always come back for you. That’s the deal. Right? We made a _deal_.”

And Abed shrugs, and shakes his head right back at him. “That’s just it. People leave. I’m an adult now, Troy. I mean, I was an adult then, too, but now I own a house so I guess I’m a real adult, at least in some people’s eyes. And when you’re an adult, you have to accept that people leave, and people break promises. People stop being best friends even when they say they won’t. Apparently, it’s called ‘growing apart.’ But it didn’t feel like that, Troy. It felt like breaking up. It felt like a sorry excuse to get you away from me and do your own thing. Bad writing disguising a need for you to turn into someone else by yourself. And then you were gone and I tried to fix what you left but it wasn’t right. It got less wrong, at the end. But it never crossed the spectrum back over into rightness. You said leaving wasn’t a forever thing but it started to feel like it. It started to feel like maybe you wouldn’t come back for me. And the thought of that was too much. And so I defaulted to Clone Abed, a lot of the time; I figured if I didn’t think about it it didn’t matter. But it crept up on me, which feelings usually don’t. And then it kept creeping up on me. And I guess I came to the realization that I can’t do any of this without you.”

Sometime during the past five minutes they both had stood up. Abed’s pacing, talking in that fast way he does when he has to get everything out. Troy’s just kind of standing there, mouth half-open like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Is _this_ romantic? He immediately regrets even trying to put a label on this. This is just how it feels, when they get like this. When they made up after the Two Days He Wishes Never Happened, or when Abed fell into the lava. Not when he’d said goodbye, though–– that had been the Clones, doing their best to tie up loose ends without actually saying any of it. Now he wishes they’d sent out their clones before Troy left for good after all. But there’s something else Troy has to know. “So why did you change your number?” He shouldn’t be angry about that, and he isn’t, not really, but he just wants to _know_. All those years of not talking making Troy crazy and Abed, saying he felt the same even though he had the power to do something about it?

“I guess… I guess I was scared. That it’d be different. Or that you wouldn’t be there. It doesn’t make sense now that I say it. Emotions don’t usually make sense though, do they?” Abed stops in his tracks then, stares right at him.

Troy finds himself at a loss for words. Usually–– Abed was right–– they had just done this stuff in their minds. Or it was unspoken, or it was communicated in other ways. But Troy knows they can’t do that anymore, at least right now. “I went around the world,” is what Troy says, because it’s the only way he can contextualize it, “and I tried so hard to be my own person. And you know what? I didn’t like it any better.” Troy knows what this is. This is a confession, and he knows Abed knows it. “It only feels right, any of it, being a human even, only feels right if you’re there. Not that I’m not me when you’re not there but… kinda! It’s kinda like that! Like there’s room in my… wherever where you usually are and you aren’t there. Like a void or a black hole or something. Because you’re it. You’re _it._ Abed, I… It’s like, I like you so much I can’t even think of a word for it. I like you so much it’s a new invention.”

Abed is silent. And then he says something that Troy hadn’t been expecting, except after he says it it makes perfect sense.

“I think we both just did the big love confession. That’s not usually how it goes.”

And Troy considers. And then he does the only thing he can. 

They’d never done a movie kiss before. Not even in the Dreamatorium, though the option was always there. It was always “We wouldn’t. Right?” “No, never.” Troy’s beginning to think that Clone Troy and Clone Abed were around far before he’d left.

The kiss isn’t the _Notebook_ kiss, or the upside-down _Spider Man_ kiss, or even the criminally underrated _Sixteen Candles_ kiss, though it easily could have been if they were on the table instead of standing next to it. It’s kind of… simple. And awesome. And one of the first things they’ve done together that feels like it isn’t anything, isn’t a reference, isn’t a movie. It’s just them. And Troy’s brain is going crazy and he can’t think any sort of coherent thoughts but all that he does know is that at some point Abed had wrapped his hand around his waist and it’s kind of making him want to go ballistic. How many _people_ had Abed kissed? And how did he learn to get so _good_ at it?

Troy feels clumsy and awkward compared to him, worries he can’t keep up until Abed cups a gentle hand under his chin in a way that makes Troy whimper. He sucks, gently, on Troy’s bottom lip and eventually his tongue finds his way into Troy’s mouth, and Troy knows that the only thing keeping him from floating off the ground like a cartoon is Abed’s hand on his back, holding him steadily to the earth. Abed pulls away, slowly, only for Troy to crash their lips together again with the kind of abandon he’d only seen in overacted romances before. Is this how it _felt_ , for them–– those people, in the stories? He thinks probably not, probably that if people felt love this strong ever there wouldn’t be romances in the first place because people would realize that words just make it more complicated. Troy feels like the universe. Troy is _kissing Abed_ , and how did it _take_ this long, and he feels the universe inside him. And Abed presses his body against Troy’s like he wants to close every millimeter that could possibly separate them from each other. In that way that says, “From now on it’s us, always, together, whole.”

Finally, _finally_ , they come up for air. Staring at each other, Abed’s hand still on the small of Troy’s back. And they breathe, and they blink, and Abed says.

“The world didn’t end.”

It’s a reference. Of course it is. To Mulder and Scully, finally I-guess-they-will-ing in their seventh season. Kissing on New Years’, understanding the kind of existential love that will make you go to Antarctica, or defy the government, or simply learn to be gentle for. It’s a line, and there’s a response, and that’s what Troy’s supposed to say, so he does, because it’s true. “No, it didn’t.” And he narrows his eyes, and looks at Abed, and says, “Actually, I think it just started.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can find me on Tumblr @nestras and @lesbiannie (main and Community blogs, respectively).
> 
> #andamovie


End file.
